


The Disappearance of Harleen Quinzel

by Leia_Blaze



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Gang Violence, Gen, Lots of Murder, Murder, Revenge, buckets o murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-24 05:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14349321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leia_Blaze/pseuds/Leia_Blaze
Summary: "Joker would come for her, yes. Maybe he might even find her. But Harleen was going to make sure that not only would she be ready, but the Joker lose everything he ever cared for."A fanfic about revenge, gang violence, and what happens when you take the road less traveled.





	1. Chapter 1

Gotham City was often associated with the cold. The city had temperate summers and bitter winters, at least when the weather wasn’t being hijacked by a vengeful snowman. During the Winter, the wind cut like a sword, and the freezing weather permeated through every part of the city. Even the heating in Harleen’s apartment barely helped; part of it was the city’s woefully underfunded public living spaces making sure the heat turned off at the worst possible times, but even when she’d had proper living spaces, she still remembered the chill permeating every aspect of her life.

But the people of Gotham, Harleen often thought, were the coldest of all. She wasn’t born in Gotham - she’d come from New York, New York. Though back where she came from it was often said with bitter sarcasm, compared to her life here it probably was the Greatest City in the World. Back then, she’d had friends, a family to help her out, hell she had even had a cute girlfriend at one point back in the day. Now, she was stuck in the Bowery, often considered to be the worst place in one of the worst cities on Earth. She was pretty sure her next door neighbor was a hitman, and she worried when she _didn’t_ hear a gunshot out in the street.

What was worse for her, however, was that she was pretty sure she had no future. Harleen’s former employment was one that was near impossible to get out of; even the very few “reformed” criminals of her type still had some connection to an old gang, or were now doing same thing but working with the Bat. It was near impossible for anyone of her kind to find a “normal” job in Gotham; even with the shorter attention spans, it turns out people still remembered that time you blew up an armored truck with a rocket launcher. And though her stipend from the Government and the WayneCorp Arkham Asylum Reformation Fund was able to get her food and even a gym membership, she knew that there was going to be a time when either of those would run out. Her house arrest tracking bracelet was also a problem; it guaranteed that even the average person on the street would give her little trust.

Harleen took a look out the window; her studio apartment was right across the street from Crime Alley and overlooked a long abandoned movie theater. She hadn’t known much about it; her best memory of it was when her ex decided it would be a “rip roaring time” to have sex in it. Only later had she learned that some famous people were shot in the alley next store. She supposed that to Joker, it was some sort of gag; fucking in a place known for death. She didn’t remember laughing at the time, though with how spotty her memory was of those days she could have cackled and not remember. It was snowing, because of course it was, and the windows were foggy and beginning to crack from the temperature. The snow sweepers rarely came by The Bowery, so the street was still covered from a snowfall of a few days ago. It was a dirty grey mush, with tire tracks from cars able to make it through. An unfortunate soul was on the street corner, trying to be both sexy and warm and failing at both.

The outside was getting too depressing for her taste, but it wasn’t like the inside was much better. She had very few personal effects left in her life, at least ones she would like to look at. She had bought a Chanukiah for the upcoming holiday, and still had some of her old psychology textbooks and the DSM-VI, though she hadn’t opened that last one for fear of uncomfortable revelations. Other than that, her studio apartment was bare; the kitchen was an electric stove, a microwave, and a sink, and her bedroom rested about about ten feet from it. A table sat awkwardly in the middle with a single chair and empty vase in its center. Her bathroom was at least fully stocked; Selina had donated pretty much all the care products a girl like Harleen could ask for. She’d even got the type of shampoo she likes.

Harleen managed to step away from the window and into the kitchen. There was dinner to make; ramen noodles, straight from the gourmet plastic wrap. She turned the electric stovetop on and put the pot of water on it, quickly rubbing her eyes. _This is it, huh? A studio apartment in the worst part of the worst city on this Lord forsaken planet._ She plopped in the brick of dried noodle when she heard the window to her apartment slam shut. A quick turn around showed a man that had been, for so long, an enemy to her. Despite standing at only around 6’1, his presence filled the room. In the ugly teal fluorescent lighting of the room, his jet black armor and heavy cloak stood out like a clown at a funeral. His cowl, tall ears on the side, covered everything but his mouth, with pieces of white glass covering his eyes. Harleen had met this man on a dozen occasions, often ending with a fist to a grease painted face.

_Batman._

Harleen put on a fake smile and did a tiny curtsey. “Hiya, Bats! What do I owe the pleasure?” One of the few things Harleen liked about herself was her voice; no matter how horrible her life was, it always came off as bubbly and sweet, with a Brooklyn accent that was too chipper to ever sound sad. Sometimes she talked to herself, just to cheer herself up a bit.

“How are you?” the Dark Knight said, his voice modulator making it come out as a bark.

“Aww, I’m swell, Bats. I didn’t think you cared! Are you going soft?” _Keep being chipper, keep being happy. Don’t let him see that you’re a wreck without a future._

“I wanted to make sure you’re… safe. I have news from Arkham, and it’s going to hurt.”

The pasta had broken apart in the pot, and swirled around. The bubbles were reaching the top. Harleen’s fake smile vanished from her face. She know exactly what he was going to say.

“Joker. He’s… gone. Vanished from Arkham Asylum during breakfast. Nobody’s sure where he went, but I have patrols out on Arkham Island and Coventry. He will be caught.”

Harleen had no response. Her mind was racing to every awful moment, every single time the presence of the clown and his ugly laugh had entered her mind over the past two months. At least then, she had the comfort that he was behind bars, that he could never find her here. But now that monster was back in her world. As long as he was out here, she would never be safe, not even from her own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Batman said, his voice modulator turned off. Without it, his voice was whispered baritone, the kind coming from a funeral director. “I can assign a member of my team to watch over this point; the apartment next door is free and one of my agents can-”  
“No.”

Batman stopped dead in his tracks. _He probably isn’t used to people refusing him._

Harleen looked back up, tears streaming down her face. “No, I don’t need anyone watching me. I-I’ll be fine. I’m not allowed to own a gun but I’ve taken self defense and…” she stopped for a second. for a quick hiccup. “...I am never going back to him.”

The pasta had begun to boil over, water spilling out of the pot and down the stove.

Batman’s face didn’t move, still not a single emotion shown. Instead, he quickly grabbed something out of his cloak, faster than she could blink. In his hand was a small, rectangular box, with a red button and the little bat she saw on his armor.

“This is an emergency button. Press it if he or any of his men show up. I might not be in the area, but I can guarantee you’ll get help.”

Harleen looked at the button, circling it with her thumb. She barley trusted him, mostly due to all the times she got knocked on her ass by him. But she at the very least knew that this wouldn’t blow up in her hand or call down a missile strike or something; she’d never seen Mr. Broody Pants kill. She put it down on the counter, and reached over to turn off the stove.

“Say, Mr. B, say if I need help with an itc-” By the time Harleen turned to look back at where Batman was standing, he was gone, the only thing left of his presence being an open window, letting colder air into an already cold room.

The water that had spilled over the pot lay in a puddle on the floor, and Harleen put her bare feet in to warm them up. She was half way sure that this was how people lose toes in the cold, but she didn’t care. Her only thought was of him, the chalky scent he gave off, his breath that smells like formaldehyde. If she knew him well, it would only be a matter of weeks before he came, and Hareen wasn’t sure if what she told Batman was the truth.

_He took everything from me, and what has he lost?_ The thought struck Harleen like a batarang to the head. She took a second to think, and came up with one thing: absolutely nothing. The Joker hadn’t lost a single goddamn thing since the two had come together. He still had a crime empire, loyal followers, his fucking life. Harleen didn’t even have proper heating anymore.

The tears on her face kept coming, but she started to laugh. It was the cackle of a witch, of someone who had just discovered something all too powerful. Joker would come for her, yes. Maybe he might even find her. But Harleen was going to make sure that not only would she be ready, but the Joker would lose everything he ever cared for.

  


The first thing that Harleen did when she finished her ramen was check her phone. No threatening voicemails, no creepy texts; Joker hadn’t even sent her an evil email. So at the very least she knew he hadn’t thought of her just yet; the man was, if nothing else, a show-off; he liked to let you know who it was that was going to come to your door. Most of the criminals here were like that; even when acting in secret they just had to leave some sort of calling card.

Harleen sat down on her bed. _I need a plan._ Joker was not an easy target; every half-crazed Bat-Wannabe had learned that by the time they were found in an alley with a face paler than Gotham’s unending snow. If she wanted to take Joker out, truly take him out, leave him with nothing, she needed more than just a sniper rifle and some patience. She’d need to errode him from the bottom up, starting with the things he already had control of. _His gang is a start._ Joker’s people were some of the most loyal and unwavering she had ever met, and she’d know. They’d always give him the support he’d need, and even kept up his operations when he was taking vacations in Arkham.

_I can’t do that. Not without help._ At the moment, Harleen figured that she lacked two big things: Information and manpower. She had no idea where Joker’s gang operated these days; it had been too long and nothing ever seems to stay the same in this damned city. Not to mention the details of the organization had probably changed; though they were always loyal, Joker had a bad habit of losing his men. He said that it was due to their negligence, but Harleen always knew it was ‘cause he just felt like murder sometimes. On the worst days, she wondered if she would be one of them; just another body dumped in another alley. Despite the fact, it always seems that this damned city was giving him fresh recruits.

That led to the second problem: Harleen had nobody to help her. She was on her own, alone against the great white void that was Gotham winter. She had no money to pay people, which meant nobody would work with her, and, as long as she had her ankle bracelet on, she couldn’t go anywhere without attracting suspicion, and nobody would actually work with someone the police could actively track.

_Alright girl, break it down into steps._ First thing she’d need to do was find a way to spoof the anklet; she needed the freedom of mobility if she wanted to try and do this. _Next I’ll need some hunks to do the heavy lifting._ Harleen was not a fighter; the closest she’d come to winning a fight was when she got a headscissors on Robin for a few seconds before someone else (she was pretty sure it was Nightwing, or Black Bat) conked her in the back of the head with a kick. But that was ok; she was pretty sure Penguin had even less skills and he’d been a prominent figure in the underworld for over a decade.

_And finally… money._ They needed a continuous source of income to properly keep going; something had to pay for bullets and gas. Drugs were always a good idea, at least in terms of income; people in this city always seemed needy for some new fix. And Harleen was 100% certain of where to get this as well; the big issue would be dealing with _her._

Harleen laid down in her bed; she didn’t have the energy to change clothes. _I’ll sleep in my jeans. That’s fine. That’s ok. I can wake up tomorrow morning and start the first day of the rest of my life._

She didn’t sleep a wink. The moment she turned the light out, she kept staring at the door, waiting for the ugly laugh that would pierce her soul.

It never came.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad pizza and coral roses.

When Harleen first moved to Gotham, one of the things that shocked her most - besides the reliance on old world architecture, the supercriminals, and the fact that it was so damn  _ cold  _ all the time - was that they still had payphones. Not only that, but they were well in use; the one outside the airport had a line that nearly went out the exit. Harleen never figured out why; her first guess was that Gotham’s attachment to its older architecture extended out to other parts of their lives. Afterall, she once saw a man walking down Davis Avenue wearing a pinstripe suit and fedora completely unironically. As Harleen dropped 50 cents into the phone booth and barely felt her fingers press the buttons out in the bitter cold, her feet feeling like they were going to fall off, she began to actually appreciate the near backwards view of the average Gothamite. She didn’t know if the Bats or GCPD could track payphones, but figured they were far too busy with other things, like  _ his  _ breakout to really care about listening in. 

Harleen waited while the phone rang, tapping her foot out of habit rather than impatience. The man that would hopefully be on the other end of the line was possibly the smartest person in Gotham. Not from pure intelligence; he didn’t have doctorate or a source of infinite wisdom - Frankie Dillion was smart because he kept himself on the downlow. As far as Harleen knew, the most amount of attention he received from the Five-O was when he got a speeding ticket. Nothing from the Bat either, which quite frankly shocked her the first time she heard about it from Calculator. She supposed that, with the quite frankly ludicrous amount of meta-human crime in the area, he was too busy to look at a lone tinkerer.

After nearly a minute, a deadpan voice picked up on the other end of the line. “Frank Dillion’s Garage, we do domestic and foreign makes for lower than anyone in Gotham. How can I help you?”  
“Frankie!” Harleen said, letting her Brooklyn accent shine like a magnesium flare. “How’s ya doing, doll?”

She heard Frank sigh on the other end of the line. “Hello, Harley.”  
“Harleen,” she spat.

“Sorry, Harleen. What do you need?”

“I need some help with my car. The GPS is actin’ up something fierce and I want to get it fixed.”

It took a few seconds for Frank to register. He breathed heavily into the receiver while doing so, and Harleen had to take the phone away from her ear for a second.

“Custom job?” he finally said, and Harleen could hear the faint sound of a pen scratching on the other end.

“Government Motors, actually.” 

“Hmmmm…” The scratching on his end finished. “Alright. Meet me at Snyder’s Pizza, the one in and bring some cash.”

“How much?” 

“Two hundred, possibly less depending on time.”

Harleen thought about how much that meant for her. Her stipend and fund money amounted to about 750 a month, which wasn’t too awful, but it left very little for her in terms of luxury. 

She thought of not having any food but Ramen and takeout for a month. She tried to eat as healthy as she could on her budget, and this could throw it all out of whack. She thought of being stuck in the Bowery when she couldn’t afford taxis.

She thought of how she was now. If she couldn’t get out of her apartment, if she couldn’t start fighting him now, then she was as good as dead when Joker came for her.  _ Dead or worse… _

“I’ll bring it,” Harleen finally said, her voice taking a slight measure down from chipper. 

“Gotchya,” Frank said, nonplussed. He hung up the phone, leaving Harleen standing there with the receiver beeping in her ear. 

  
  


Snyder’s Pizza was an institution. It had been in Gotham since Harleen had first come to town, its red, green, and white overhanging sign never getting older. Nor had the owner, in fact; his mustached and jowled face still barely sat over the counter when Harleen walked in with two hundread dollars burning a hole in her pocket. His facial hair was still the exact same shade of grey as when she first walked in years ago, and the place smelled exactly like the mixture of grease and tomatoes she remembered. 

It wasn’t that large of a shop; Snyder’s was more well known for delivery than for a first class dining experience. There were five tables, four by the window and the fifth behind a curtain near the back. Harleen had never actually eaten at Snyder’s, mostly due to her preferring Chicago style over New York Style (Telling her father that was, for a long time, the most difficult thing she ever had to do). She was incredibly intimate with that table; it was the perfect meeting point away from prying, batty eyes. 

Harleen sat down in the chair facing the curtain and checked her phone. Frank had texted that he was on his way, but with Gotham he could have been held up by anything from bad traffic to a giant crab. A thought had entered her mind, that he had sold her out to the Bat, that her plan was ruined already. It didn’t help when she heard him walk into the store and mutter something to the owner, and then wait by the counter. Every second that Harleen could hear on the restaurant's clock was like a gunshot.

After what felt like enough time for man to evolve, Frank walked behind the curtain holding two plates, each with a slice of pizza on it. 

“I, uh, thought you would want this,” he said quietly. Frank put the plates down on the table. “I figured out what’s going on, you’re gonna need some food if you’re gonna try and do it. Getting out of Gotham while you’re under probation like this is difficult; you’re gonna be wanted in a few different states. I know a guy in Keystone who can help; his name is Axel; hopefully he-”

Frank was cut off by Harleen’s giggling. “Thanks, chief, but I’m not heading out of Gotham. This is just to make things easier for some plans of mine.”

Frank didn’t say anything for a few seconds, before quietly motioning Harleen to put her leg on the table. She did so, and made sure to grab one of the two plates of pizza. When she picked it up of the plate, the cheese slid off and made a splash when it hit the plate. “Ah, dreck,” she muttered, before taking a bite of the cheeseless crust.

“So,” Frank said, removing the panel from the front of the anklet, “I know it ain’t my place to pry, but uh, you’re not gonna blow up the city are you? I won’t report you, but give me warning so I can get out. 

Harleen was pretty sure she couldn’t say “Don’t worry, I’m only starting a brand new gang in order to take out Joker and his whole organization,” to Frank, no matter how trustworthy he was considered. Loose lips did, after all, sink ships. So instead, she took another bite of cheeseless pizza.

Frank muttered a small curse and closed the panel. Then, he spun the anklet around and started to unlatch it from her foot. “My advice? Get out of Gotham. I know I thought you were going to, but it’s the smartest thing.”

“If I leave Gotham, and he’s alive, what’s the point?” Harleen finished the crust and looked at the pile of greasy cheese on the plate. “Are you gonna have that other slice?” she said, cutting at the cheese with a fork and knife.  _ Dad would kill me for this. And everything I’m about to do.  _

Frank simply sighed, and Harleen heard a quick snap. The anklet fell off her foot, landing in the other plate of pizza. “It’s still broadcasting, but I spoofed it to give off a scheduled location. It’s gonna automatically register you as home ten minutes before any sort of house arrest alarm goes off. Might want to still meet with a parole officer if you have any, and wear it in public if you can.” 

Frank stood up. “I don’t know what you are about to do, or why you want to do it, but please be careful. The Bat is more attentive than ever, and if you get caught, I don’t think they’ll put you in Arkham this time.” 

Harleen handed over his cash. “Thank you, dear.”

Frank took the cash and walked out of the curtain. It closed, and the doorbell rang again, presumably him leaving the establishment. Harleen sat alone in the little enclosed area, the other slice having gone cold long ago. 

  
  
  
  


Harleen had taken a cab out of the Gotham Metropolitan Area, across Trigate bridge. The Bats still had a presence out here, but the crime was far down. It was a good area to hide out, and Harleen knew plenty of criminals who did. Like the one she was about to visit. The cab pulled up half a mile away, next to a small path in the woods that looked like it hadn’t been maintained in months. 

“You sure this is where you want?” the cab driver asked, concern in her voice. 

Harleen didn’t answer; instead, she got out of the cab and adjusted her coat. The snow hadn’t hit this area of Gotham quite as hard, so it was possible to actually walk up the path, the trees keeping up their leaves despite the season. Harleen walked down the path knowing exactly why. There was a tingle in her stomach, an excitement she hadn’t felt in so long. It was one of the few times she’d really felt  _ good _ in a long time. 

The path led up to a greenhouse, in perfect working condition. The greenhouse was surrounded by fields of flowers, and trees with what looked too much like faces lined the roads. The wind blew a cutting cold, yet knowing what was about to happen, Harleen felt warm. She knocked on the door, the glass warming up to her touch.  It took nearly a minute of waiting, but a vine came and opened the door, and Harleen stepped inside. 

It was beautiful, the most amount of color in one location that Harleen had seen in ages. The cement greys and brick reds that had occupied her eyes for months on end had been replaced by vibrant greens, blues, and pinks. It was if she had stepped into a whole other dimension, one of warmth and happiness. 

The plants in the greenhouse bent towards her, as if she were the source of light in the room. And all at once, a voice rang out. 

“Harleen. It’s been far too long, dear. What brings you back to me?” The voice dripped out of every direction in the greenhouse, the plants themselves speaking for her. Harleen was never sure how it actually worked, but it was hot, every time. 

“Red! Thanks for letting me in, doll. I need your help, actually.” 

The flowers shifted over to a large flower that took up the center of the room. It bloomed open, it’s petals wilting down to the floor. In the center was Poison Ivy, naked, her green skin practically glowing. Her bright red hair had gotten significantly, unnaturally long, and it dragged down on the floor when she walked. Her hair was braided with vines, along which coral roses bloomed. Ivy yawned for a moment, wiping her eyes with the back of her palm. Harleen had never seen anything so cute since she first met a hyena at the Bronx Zoo. 

“Hiya, sleepy head,” Harleen whispered, getting close. Ivy smelled like citrus fruit; an aroma that reminded Harleen of weekend farmers markets. It took a lot for her to not just collapse into Ivy’s arms right there, but much as she wanted it to be, this wasn’t a pleasure trip. This was for business. Harleen stepped back, and put her hands on Ivy’s shoulders. “I need your help, Red. It’s about Joker.”

Ivy stepped back, her face waking up. 

“I’m going to destroy him, Red. But I need your help.”


End file.
